Jazz herself saw things differently; the most important thing to her was experience—good, bad, and indifferent—and to explore arguments, not win them. When she was at school everyone had just assumed that she’d go on to university. Dad had wanted her to go to his old college in Cambridge where Grandpa George had gone as well, back at the dawn of time. So for most of her life Jazz had assumed that that was what would happen. Then, in the upheaval of the sudden move to Ireland, it had felt somehow that all bets were off. She had hated the move at first, and been fairly flinty-eyed herself for a while but, as time went on, her new surroundings had opened up new possibilities. At her private school in London everyone had been headed down the same narrow track: an Oxbridge degree, a prestigious internship—probably bought and paid for by Daddy—and a career that ensured a steady rise in income year on year. By contrast, the people she went to school with in Lissbeg had all kinds of aspirations, few of which involved certainty. Maybe it was because their role models were different. Mostly, their parents were farmers or fishermen whose livelihoods depended on the weather, or people whose businesses changed and evolved according to the economic climate. Some of her classmates did plan to continue their studies. Others just laughed and said that they couldn’t afford to. Why not get out there and get on with something instead of getting stuck with a big load of student debt? And there were people like Conor McCarthy who had families to consider. Conor had always fancied going to university, he’d told her, but the way things were, there wasn’t a chance of it: he and his brother, Joe, had to keep up the farm.
“All the same though, it’s probably just as well. If I did go to college my dad would have me doing agriculture.”
“And you wouldn’t want to?”
“God, no. Half the stuff they teach you is about expansion and rationalization and things that wouldn’t interest me at all. That’s agribusiness, not farming.”
What he wanted was to be a librarian like her mum. Jazz didn’t see the attraction. The library in Lissbeg appeared to be empty half the time and Mum seemed to get no fun out of her work.
“Well, yeah, maybe and—now, I’m not saying a word against her, mind—but I’d say she could make it different if she wanted to. Really change the vibe, like.”
It seemed to Jazz that the big convent building with its closed-off rear section, derelict school yard, and temporary council offices, could never be other than gloomy. So how could the library, which was stuck in the old school hall, turn into the vibrant hub of energy that Conor envisaged? It hadn’t seemed fair to challenge him, though. The poor guy was stuck in Lissbeg with his fantasies while people like herself could just get up and go. That had been one of the attractions of the airline job. She could travel the world and live wherever she wanted, discover new ways of thinking and eating and arguing and experience stuff that her school friends in London could never even imagine. Admittedly, at the moment, she was seeing an awful lot of out-of-town airports and very little else. But she’d only been in the job for six months and here she was, living in France in her own flat, with a courtyard, a vine, and a balcony, even if all of them were shared.
The bathroom was gleaming, which meant that Georgiou had been the last person to use it. Jazz ran a bath and sank back happily into deep, scented water. Her mum’s only reaction to the plan for a flat-share was to ask how many bathrooms there were and, on hearing that there was only one, to laugh and warn Jazz to clean up after herself.
“The worst rows you ever have in a flat are about rings around the bath and wet towels on the floor.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I remember them.”
Apparently Mum had shared with three girls somewhere in London before she had married Dad.
“Where was it?”
“Near Paddington Station.”
“Cool.”
“Not at the time. It was a bit grubby and very dusty and we kept being woken by police sirens.”
“Did you like it, though?”
“Of course. We were young. It was my first flat. Well, my only flat. After that I moved in with Dad.”
“What, before you were married?”
“It was the eighties, not the Dark Ages. He had a flat near Sloane Square—which was very cool, by the way—and we lived there before we found the house.”
“I thought it was you who found it.”
“Well, yes, it was. I had the time to go looking for it.”
“And then you did it up.”
“Yes.”
“Dad always says you were a genius designer. Why didn’t you do that as a career?”
“Well, because . . .”
“. . . I mean you were married for ages before you had me.”
Jazz had never really thought about it before, but it did seem odd that Mum had never worked. And why was she working now, when she didn’t have to? She must have plenty of alimony from Dad. Perhaps it was because she was bored in Ireland, or fed up being cooped up with Nan. Come to think of it, why was she taking out a loan from the Credit Union? Surely Dad would lend her the money she needed for Maggie’s place, to save her paying interest? In fact, if Dad was happy to throw money at a flat for her in France, why wouldn’t he just give Mum what she needed to do up her house in Ireland? Jazz held her sponge at arm’s length in the air and squeezed a stream of water onto her face. The sun was blazing through the open bathroom window and there were house martins dancing in the air outside: you could see from the courtyard below that there was a nest of them up in the eaves. Later on, she thought, she might dig out the large terra-cotta pots in the courtyard and replant them with new plants from the market. The geraniums she had planted ages ago had long given up the ghost for lack of watering. None of the tenants in the building felt any particular sense of ownership about the courtyard, which was why the pots were usually full of dead flowers. Only the vine, which was rooted in a bed by the door, flourished on neglect. Eventually the management company would probably hack it back to preserve the gutters, but for the moment it continued to curl up the exterior of the block, twisting around balconies and making for the martins’ nest.
Having emptied her bath and dutifully cleaned the bathroom, Jazz hung her towel over the balcony rail, which, strictly speaking, was not encouraged, and dressed for her leisurely walk to the market. Downstairs, she called a hasty “Bonjour, Madame,” to the concierge, who was talking on the phone, and slipped out the front door, conscious of the bath towel flapping above her.
Strolling down the hill toward the town square, she wondered about her mum’s new project. According to Nan, it was a disaster waiting to happen, but that was probably just Nan, who loved a bit of drama. Jazz sometimes thought that it couldn’t have been easy for Mum growing up with Nan’s negativity. Whatever anyone might plan or want, Mary Casey was sure to find a flaw in it. Mostly that was just funny but sometimes it pulled you down. Mum seldom said anything, but Jazz had recently come to suspect that it bothered her more than a little. Before they moved to Ireland, Mum had sailed through life looking serene and well dressed, organizing dinner parties for Dad’s friends in London and dispatching weekly food baskets to the cottage in Norfolk from Fortnum and Mason’s Food Hall. Even during the long summer holidays that they’d spent in Ireland when Jazz was little, Mum had been cheerful and relaxed. But Granddad was alive in those days and perhaps that had made a difference. Anyway, whatever the reason, there was nothing serene about her now. So perhaps moving out of Nan’s and having her own space was a good idea. It just seemed weird to choose a place that sounded like some sort of ruin. Next time she was home, Jazz thought, she’d have to go round to see it. The chances were that Nan was just being a drama queen and that the house would turn out to be picture-postcard perfect, with honeysuckle nodding at the door.
26
There was a man in a tracksuit working his way along the shelves, taking each book down and looking at it. He had started at the back of the library and was moving steadily in one direction
, removing each book one at a time, staring at the cover and then replacing them. Hanna watched him for about half an hour and then couldn’t stand it any longer. Getting up from her desk, she walked down the room and, lowering her voice, spoke to him briskly.
“Can I help you at all?”
The man looked round, peered at her through glasses like goggles, and spoke in a voice like a foghorn.
“Oh no, you’re all right there, girl, I’m grand.”
“Could you lower your voice, please?”
“No, no, I’m fine, honestly.”
“Yes, but could you speak quietly . . .”
“No, not at all, not a bother on me, Conor has me sorted.”
Turning away, he reached for a paperback, inspected its cover, and replaced the book on its shelf. Then, having come to the end of a row, he reached up and began the same process on the one directly above it. Hanna gave up. Pursuing the question of keeping his voice down seemed pointless. He was doing no harm, and, after all, he hadn’t made a sound until she herself had spoken to him.
Shrugging, she returned to her desk and prepared to battle with her computer. Yesterday it had started to behave oddly and today trying to access data had become like Russian roulette; often she’d have no trouble at all, but sometimes files would disappear and reappear mysteriously in inappropriate folders. The IT guy at the County Library was obviously convinced she was incompetent. After twenty minutes on the phone he had sighed deeply and said he’d be over next week.
“Well, I can’t sit here till next week with a useless computer!”
“Sorry, Miss Casey, that’s the best I can do. Are you sure you’ve been following my instructions?”
“Of course I have. And before I rang you I did everything I could think of myself.”
Even as she said that, she knew that she shouldn’t have. The bored voice on the other end of the phone became even more patronizing.
“Look, you’re probably best to leave it so, you’ll only make things worse if you mess with it.”
Controlling herself with an effort, Hanna had thanked him curtly and hung up. She might not be fluent in computer-speak but she wasn’t in the habit of messing with the tools of her trade, and if it hadn’t been likely to antagonize him further she would have loved to have said so. Still, what mattered was to get the damn thing up and running, not to outsmart some pimple-faced youth in Carrick.
She had just sat down at her desk again when Conor came into the library. He was shrouded in the zip-up overalls he wore on the Vespa and still wearing his crash helmet.
“How’s the computer?”
“Driving me mad. But, Conor, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know, yeah, but I was coming in to town for a part for the tractor and I had an inspiration on the road. I’d say you might want to reinstall that last program.”
Hanna stood aside as he went behind the desk and removed his crash helmet.
“That yoke yer man set up the last day he was here”—Conor sat down and frowned at the screen—“I thought at the time he was making a bags of it.”
“He just said on the phone that I wasn’t to mess with it.”
Conor snorted. “I bet he did. He knows that he did something wrong. Give me a minute here now and I’d say I’ll sort it for you.”
Ten minutes later, he swung the chair away from the desk and beamed at her.
“What am I?”
“You’re a genius!”
“I am, of course. Hold your breath now, and keep your fingers crossed and you shouldn’t have any more trouble.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll take a cup of coffee?”
“No. Cows to milk, tractor to mend.” He picked up his crash helmet. “I’ll see you the next day.”
Hanna opened the door for him as he struggled with his chinstrap. At the far end of the room a head appeared round the shelving and the man in the tracksuit and goggle glasses bellowed a cheerful greeting.
“There you are, Conor, how’s it going?”
“Grand, thanks, Oliver, any luck yet?”
“Not a sign of him yet, Conor, but, sure, I’ll keep at it. Twenty minutes every second day, that’s my stint.”
As the head disappeared behind the shelves, Hanna grabbed Conor’s arm.
“Who in the name of God is that?”
“That’s the dog man. Do you not remember?”
“What dog man?”
“Yer man who sent the email about the book. It had a picture of a black dog on the front and he couldn’t find it.”
“So he’s working his way through the entire library?”
“Well, he’d already done the bookshops.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“A few weeks now. I suppose he’s usually here on mobile days when you’re out. I said it was fine. Is there a problem?”
Hanna shook her head. “No, no, of course not.”
“I told him he should try to remember the title while he’s at it.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Back at her desk, Hanna clicked on her mouse and watched the file she required appear on her screen exactly as it should. Beyond the library door, the sound of the Vespa’s engine bounced off the forecourt walls and then faded away as Conor shot off into the distance. Ten minutes later there was an influx of parents and kids choosing and returning books on their way home from the school run. Behind them, with his hands in his pockets and his waxed jacket pulled round his skinny hips, came Fury O’Shea, closely followed by The Divil.
27
Hanna shot across the room and cornered Fury in the doorway. “This is a public library, you can’t bring The Divil in here.”
The Divil wasn’t as young as he used to be, but he knew antagonism when he heard it. Pointing his nose at Hanna, he planted himself stiff-legged on the threshold, growling deep in his throat. At the far side of the room a child burst into tears and a resentful father turned and glared at Hanna, who hissed at Fury.
“You-can-not-bring-a-dog-in-here. Take him out.”
The Divil’s growl became more menacing. Fury looked down at him thoughtfully and then looked back up at Hanna.
“And there was me thinking you were trying to get hold of me. Right so, we’ll be off.”
Turning, he hooked the toe of his boot under The Divil’s ribs and lifted him out the door.
“No, hang on a minute . . .”
There was a sharp tutting noise from the parents in Children’s Corner where Darina Kelly, in shorts and gladiator sandals, was selecting a Pippi Longstocking book for her paint-spattered toddler to destroy. Hanna grabbed Fury’s sleeve and yanked him back into the library. The door slammed behind him, leaving The Divil outside.
“Why haven’t you answered your phone?”
“Didn’t I tell you the day you hired me, girl? I never have it turned on.”
“I did not hire you. Not on that day or any other day.”
“Well, you’ve been happy to avail of my goats.”
Hanna took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not saying that I didn’t think you’d taken on the project. I did think you’d taken on the project. I just thought that you’d behave normally.”
“Normally?”
“Yes. Like a normal person who understood basic English. I told you I wanted paperwork. Planning permission properly dealt with. Estimates. No, dammit, I wanted a quote. I expected you to provide a schedule. And I specifically said that I wanted the roof slates retained. Then I turned up the other day to find the extension demolished and the slates gone without my having heard a word from you.”
Fury looked over at the group of parents in Children’s Corner who had given up all pretense of looking at books. Was she sure, he asked, that this was the right place to talk? Hanna grasped him by the elbow. There was a howl from the doorstep outside, where The Divil appeared to have sensed through a solid oak door that Fury was under threat. Opening the door, Fury stepped out to roar ‘Shut up, yeh Divil!” and st
epped back in again, taking elaborate care to close the door quietly. Hanna jammed her hands into her pockets and, with a jerk of her head, preceded him down the library towards the kitchen. Once inside, she shut the kitchen door, breaking her own cardinal rule about not leaving the books unsupervised, and faced Fury across the narrow room. Before she could speak he cocked his head at her.
“So how do you know that your slates aren’t piled up somewhere safe against the weather, ready to go back where they came from?”
Hanna gaped at him. “Are they?”
“No they’re not. I sold them.”
“You sold them?”
“Well, no, actually, I didn’t. I swapped them.”
When he started to strip the roof, he said, he’d found the joists were worse than he’d expected. Mind you, that was often the way, you could never be sure till you saw them. Anyway, the sensible thing was to start again with new lumber and that was going to cost a pretty penny.
“So I swapped the slates for a load of tiles with the timber thrown in on the side.”
“But I told you . . .”
“Don’t I know what you told me? But you never said to waste your money.”
Hanna stared at her own reflection in the teapot, willing herself to stay calm. “And that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s my money. I am the client, you are the builder. It’s my money and I decide how it is spent.”
The Library at the Edge of the World Page 13
